


Little Dark Age

by Skullfuggery (OverwatchingYouSleep)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Death, F/M, Knifeplay, Necrophilia I think?, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverwatchingYouSleep/pseuds/Skullfuggery
Summary: A short spin off fic of DominaRava's lovely fic, La Petite Mort, following a brief series of encounters between Michael and the Reader.[Spoilers for Chapter 8 if you haven't caught up yet!]





	Little Dark Age

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [La Petite Mort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951476) by [DominaRava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DominaRava/pseuds/DominaRava). 



> Hey hey I highly suggest reading the fic this is based off of first, not only to make sense of this one but because it's good and it's what they deserve. This is also based on the album Little Dark Age by MGMT.

_“Get ready to have some fun!_

_Alright, here we go!”_

In the haze of your slaughter, you were only half aware of yourself throwing an album on the record player. You had barely set the needle when you caught Michael’s frame on the edges of your vision, sending you into a thrilled dash across the living room. The plunging synths and upbeat drums served as perfect backdrop to your padding footsteps over hardwood floors. Never once stopping to see how close behind he was. The surprise was the exciting part.

Rounding a corner, you noticed an open window on the opposite end of the dining table. Outside was quiet, the normal bustling of Halloween night silenced as the Entity fought to conserve its energy. Instinctively, you mind honed from countless trials made that a tempting escape route. But trials had never been this fun.

You circled around the table, readying yourself for a leap through the opening. A chilly midnight breeze slammed you as you pulled yourself out, but you didn’t get a quarter of your body through before a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling a delighted scream from your throat as you were wrenched back inside.

You felt gravity shift around you, breath squeezed out in a huff as Michael pulled you both into a chair. Your back was held against his chest, hearts both in various states of fervor. His arm slid up from your waist, hand finding your chin and clamping over your jaw. His thumb found one cheekbone and the rest of his hand the other, and he used his grip to turn your eyes up to his expressionless mask.

In that same instant, he drove his knife into your stomach. You gasped, the sharp inhale turning into a contented hum as he dragged the blade upwards. He carved up into your chest, weaving between ribs and jerking through resistance, until you melted into the pile of viscera he had made you.

_“Giddy with delight,_

_Seeing what’s to come.”_

By the time you came to, Michael’s hands were already wrapped snug around your throat. Mask akimbo over his forehead from being pulled up so quickly, your own blood still dripping from the ragged hair and latex lips, and his eyes were wild with an emotion you rarely saw on him. Exhilaration.

Once your eyes met his the grip he held on your throat tightened, cutting off your first breaths and the blood rushing to your head. Your lungs seized as they struggled to function, but none of that panic reached your mind, turned into an unending swirl of delight and ecstasy from the serum. You tried to call out his name, but your larynx had already been too crushed to function.

So you reached for him. You slid your fingers beneath the loose edges of his mask and pushed it off, letting them curl through his hair unimpeded. Your touch was sloppy, sending stray hairs everywhere as you pawed desperately at Michael, searching for the release in your own death.

The bassline of the moody synth-pop pounded harder and harder in your ears the more blood rushed to your head. Your brain felt ready to burst. Your caress turned into a hard tug, and Michael growled as he dipped down, stealing the last of your life through a brutal, predatory kiss.

_“Don’t call me nice._

_I’m gonna eat your heart out.”_

Next time was slower. Michael was almost gentle while he bent you over the counter. Delicate in how he fed you more of the gleaming ichor. His fingers roamed over your inner thighs, finding your femoral artery and tracing it in light swipes. The ghost of his knife traced along your spine, hardly pressing in, never cutting.

The energetic track coming from the living room was amusingly blithe compared to the situation you found yourself in, you noted with a giggle. His touch paused, and you could only imagine Michael’s head tilted to the side, perhaps reminded for the dozenth time tonight about your loss of sanity. It continued just as quickly.

The instant his fingers found themselves at your slit, the blade finally began to press into your skin, both drawing mewls from your throat. Michael dragged the knife in uninspired patterns across your flesh, two fingers dipping inside of you, searching for the spot that would make your legs quake with your own weight. You were having a hard time holding it up anyways, the way your neurons ran alight with fiery, sublime pain.

He leaned over you, finding some lull in the carnage to unbutton the top half of his jumpsuit. Lean musculature scarcely hidden by a t-shirt replaced the blade, and in turn he circled the arm around you to press the knife up against your neck. You moaned at the first graze of the steel.

“Do it,” you begged. Michael didn’t respond, the slow circling of his fingers unphased by your wiggling hips and desperate cries. His mouth found itself latched onto your jugular, sucking harshly and creating a dark, prominent hickey. His lips barely left when they were back on you in an instant, even more animalistic as he tasted your flesh. Teeth grazed, then bit, then buried into your skin, blood rearing its head out of the wounds. At the first taste of it Michael hissed, ripping the knife away from your neck and slamming it into the center of your hand. The blade buried an inch into the counter and stopped, effectively pinning you in place as he continued to tear into your neck.

Not that you would have tried to escape.

_“Not everyone can be like me and Michael.”_

That first lyric stopped Michael dead in his tracks. You looked up from where you were cradled to his chest and saw a curious, blood-splattered smirk, combined with nostrils flaring in what you’d come to learn was his way of laughing. His expression when he finally glanced at you could only be described as wry. Equal parts “Cheesy” and “I like this one.”

He continued up the stairs two at a time, pushing past the half-open door and into his bedroom. It was the only part of the home not ripped straight from memories, the bed and decor aged but not decrepit. The bedspread was already stained with blood both old and fresh, but it didn’t stop Michael from tossing you on the sullied blankets and climbing over you in a frenzy.

Lips met, intensified tenfold with the taste of your own blood. He dragged you into a kiss so deep you didn’t notice him placing the knife, covered in as much of your fluids as he was, on the bedside table. But something certainly did.

cluthusl–Again–ntuyeolveux

There was no respite from the constant slew of kissing, making it impossible to protest as Michael spread your legs around his waist and groped across your torso, all without trying to murder you. He pulled away to remove what remained of his clothes and you finally caught a breath–and a word.

“Please,” you begged, pupils blown wide and heart thundering in your chest. He paused to meet those eyes, his own languid and absent. “Come on, please! I need it! I need you to–”

His hand slammed into your throat, pining you to the pillow while he reached for the blade. The familiar slide of his massive knife inside your sternum ripped a ragged cry of euphoria from your throat. You basked in the warmth of blood cascading in waves over your sides. Synapses inflamed, ecstasy coursing through your body like shots of espresso. With one final jerk, you finally slipped into the throes of death you had become so comfortable with.

And then you came back.

_“You should come with me_

_We can lose ourselves in nothing.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I have a new DbD blog because self control doesn't exist: skulfuggery.tumblr.com


End file.
